


Drawn in black and white

by SkyEventide



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, just an excuse for porn tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEventide/pseuds/SkyEventide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of three short drabbles about Fëanor and Nerdanel's intimate activities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn in black and white

**Author's Note:**

> ...Just plain good old smut.

Nerdanel said he sometimes smelt of coal and smoke, and of metal and sweat, like a stinging scent that would linger in his hair and on his skin. Fëanáro washed himself with balms until the smell of the forge left his body; she said, however, that sometimes she enjoyed it.

He enjoyed her smell as well, when he nuzzled against her body, inhaling deeply what remained of her hours of work, of her enthusiasm. It was pungent, arousing. When he licked her cleavage, holding her breasts, such a smell felt almost motherly and those night he lay his head upon her chest and his body upon hers, cherishing her as though he wished to absorb her in himself, and merely slept. But the nights after he pressed his face against her thighs, brushed her legs with his cheeks, her lips with his own; he buried his fingers in her flesh and his tongue in her body.

* * *

 

He liked her hands upon his brow, following the curve of his frown, soothing it with her hard fingertips. He somehow realised, as Nerdanel caressed his cheekbones and his eyelids, that he would have never married a woman whose hands were soft and whose neck was slender, whose hips were narrow. He kissed the calluses on her palms and touched the sings of pregnancies on her sides.

He melted in her allaying hands as if she were reshaping all of his body, all of his muscles.

He thrust in her, with his forehead on her collarbones as though he could cry in his desire.

* * *

 

Nerdanel made him sit on a chaise-longue and asked him to stay still, something he had never been good at. She sat too, in front of him, with parchment on a support and holding charcoal in fingers that were already stained black. He could not move his own hands and so watched her move her own. She drew him, and the charcoal that traced his lines tickled him as if it were touching him. A brush of her eyes over his collarbones, a brush of black paint on the paper, her hand defining his face, the curve of his chin, his chest, his nipples, his abdomen, the drapery of the cloth covering him downwards, and then his thighs, the curve of the knee, his feet. A gaze like a pinch and a caress.

He filled his chest with air, kept his breath trapped for a moment and then blew it out, in keen awareness of her eyes. He felt worshipped for the mere fact of existing, even while making nothing. The shades she was painting, of his muscles, of his hair, were like shivers, and his face grew heated.

She smiled, then, and whispered him to uncover himself.

He did, and tension arose in his legs, blood rushed, made him hard.

She stood up, leaving the drawing on the chair, and reached him with a smile. She grabbed him and, from base to top, she stroked and called his hips to her, made him jerk.

Her hand stained his skin with black powder, the other stroke again and Fëanáro widened his eyes, grasped the edges of his seat holding it as if he could crush wood with his fingers. She made him thrust forward and moan aloud, and drew his stained skin in white.


End file.
